Bronx Masquerade (8 page)

That classroom sounded like a tomb after she read. I’m sitting there studying the video camera, and I’m wondering what Sheila would think if she could hear herself on that tape, if she could watch those words coming out her own mouth.

Judianne’s right. There’s something wrong with that girl. Hey, lots of peeps change their names, I ain’t got no problem with that. Some have to, the names their folks gave them are such dogs. But that girl sound like she wants to change her race. What’s that about? She feeling guilty ’cause her family’s got it good? I don’t get it, but I’m gonna leave that one alone.

“Hey, Mr. Ward,” I said. “What you planning to do with all them videotapes you’re making?”

“I’m going to keep them, maybe show them to my students next year to introduce them to the idea of open-mike readings. If that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah, that works for me,” I said. “Just make sure you show them mine.”

Sheila may have identity problems, but I don’t. I know exactly who I am, and no matter what anybody says, I know I was born in New York City for a reason. Where else does the sidewalk tremble under your feet from the rumble of subways underground, and trucks and city buses up top? Where else do cabbies and garbagemen, bankers and businessmen all walk with a beat? Where else can you find grade A, top of the line characters roaming the streets spouting Shakespeare in the middle of a blizzard? And where else can you find Broadway?

The first time my folks set me down in front of a Broadway stage to watch a musical, and I saw walls rising into the ceiling and staircases disappearing into the floor, I knew: I wanted to be a set designer, and I wanted to work on Broadway.

If you come to my house, there’s hardly anywhere to sit in my bedroom, or to step, for that matter, because the whole place is cluttered with hand-painted miniature cardboard sets I designed for imaginary plays. I’ll work on real ones as soon as I get to college, because I figure there’ll be plenty of opportunities to sharpen my skills working on college productions, especially down at NYU, where I plan to go. If I get in.
When
I get in. I have to get in. I have to get back to the city.

Two months ago, my father announced that we’re leaving. We’re moving out. The city is getting too rough, he said. Mom’s not sure she wants to go on teaching in public schools. She has decided to take a break, so this is a good time to move, he said. As for him, he’ll keep his job in publishing and just commute. From
Yorktown Heights.

I tried to pretend like the move is no big deal, since Mom and Dad are so hot on it, especially Mom, who’s been wanting her own house forever. But man, I’m dying. I got friends here that I’ve grown up and gone to school with all my life, and I fit in here, and you can’t tell me there are guys with bleach-blond buzz cuts and earrings in Yorktown. And what about the theater? There’s no Broadway in
Yorktown.

But maybe that’s the point. Mom’s not too keen on my plans to work in the theater, which is no surprise. She’s still trying to get over my wearing an earring, even though I bought the smallest one I could find. (She freaked anyway.) I don’t think Dad is too stoked about my plans either, although he doesn’t say it because he knows I remember him telling me how he used to want to be an entertainer. He played drums in a band when he was my age, and had big-time plans of hitting the road like Ringo Starr and the Beatles, and doing shows across the country. Then his family moved to Binghamton, away from all his band mates, and eventually, his dream faded away.

Is that why they’re moving? Is that what they’re hoping happens to me?

Just the thought of maybe never working in the theater makes me crazy, and one day, I tell this story about my father to Raul and I tell him I don’t understand how my father’s dream could just die like that, when what I really want to know is, can mine. And Raul says something that sticks with me. “Maybe your father’s dream wasn’t really in his heart. If a dream is in your heart, you never lose it.”

After we had that conversation, I kicked my doubts to the back of the closet. (Well, almost. I still go in there now and then.) Part of me continues to be afraid of following in my father’s footsteps. These days, though, I try to concentrate on keeping my grades up so I can get into NYU when the time comes, because one thing I know for sure is that my dream is in my heart.

I’ve got two more years of school to go. Two more years to hold on to my dream, and two more years of Open Mike Fridays. Well, one year and a couple of months—this year’s going by so fast. I hope I’ll still have a chance to do Open Mike next year. They’re so popular now, every kid in school wishes they were in Mr. Ward’s class. I can’t blame them. We got a good thing going here, and people need to know about it. We’re sick of the negative press teenagers get all the time. Apparently somebody at
The Bronx Insider
agreed. Mr. Ward said they’re sending a reporter to cover our next Open Mike Friday, and it should be a monster. Mr. Ward invited a real poet to come speak to us and to read some of his work. It’s not an assembly exactly, but Mr. Ward is having us meet together in the multipurpose room for the special presentation. Pedro Pietri is the poet’s name. He’s in this book called
The United States of Poetry
and some body said he’s a reverend. Sterling must be stoked! Anyway, I’m looking forward to hearing him. Poetry is the coolest thing we got going on in this school now. Maybe I’ll still be around next year to enjoy it.

Whether I finish up school here, or in Yorktown Heights depends on my folks. Either way, there’s a set designer’s job on Broadway with my name on it, and I’m not giving it up for anybody.

OPEN MIKE

BY STEVE ERICSON

 

 

When I was seven,
I
looked to heaven
and dreamed
of going to the moon
but pretty soon
somebody came along
to change
my tune.
They put me down.
Bang! There my dream lay
on the ground.
Thank God, eventually
I came around
and dreamed
another dream.

 

Either that boy’s been hanging out with some brothas, or he wish he had. He must’ve grown up round here, the way he talks. But I hope he ain’t studying on hanging out with me. We can peacefully coexist, but I don’t have no white boys in my crew.

He ain’t half bad, though. Pedro Pietri must’ve thought so too, the way he clapped when Steve was done. It was kinda cool having a published poet in the audience. First he read to us, then we read to him. He really listened to us too, like we were equals.

I bet Pietri’s partly why that reporter came out to our school. Not that the
Insider
is the
Times
or
Daily
News. But hey, it’s better than nothing. At least they’re interested in the good stuff going on in our neighborhood. Of course, I thought they would send in a brotha, but they sent this white guy. Ain’t no telling what kind of piece he’ll write about our stuff. Somebody should have told him it’s a long way from Shakespeare!

He talked to Rev. Pietri and Mr. Ward, mostly, but he took notes the whole time we were reading, and his photographer snapped a bunch of pictures. He definitely got one of me. He didn’t say which ones they’d be using, though. He got down everybody’s name, just in case, so he’d have them for the captions. Hope he spells my name right. Be just my luck, I get in the paper for something
good
and they misspell my name.

The paper comes out next week. See if I ain’t the first one at the newsstand.

Finish what you start. That’s my mother’s favorite saying, and she’s earned a right to it. She had me when she was a teenager, but that didn’t stop her from finishing high school, and she moved more times than Steve could even dream of! Every now and then, when I consider dropping out, I take a good, long look at my mother and think again.

This year certainly gave me plenty of opportunities to practice.

Homework was a nightmare. Essay questions in history
and
English. What are they trying to do, kill me? All those words swirling around the page gave me a headache I’m still trying to get rid of. If only they could give homework a beat and put it on a CD. Now
that
would work for me. Then they’d be speaking my language. Chords. Melodies. Homework in the key of G. Oh, yeah.

Music has always come easier to me than words. My mother says I used to beat out rhythms on my high chair with a spoon. I don’t know if the story’s true, but she’s told it so often, everyone believes it. The one thing I know for certain is that I eat, sleep, and dream music. Man, when I see myself in the future, it’s on a bandstand, fingering my alto. I may not be much of a talker, but hey, give me a sax and I’ll talk all night long. My cousin Sterling says one day the whole world will hear what I have to say.

Last week, my English class was the world.

It was Open Mike Friday and I’d shown up with my saxophone case in one hand and a folded-up poem in the other. Not that I needed a copy of the poem. Besides the other kids, I knew we’d have a living, published poet in the audience, so I’d spent a week memorizing and rehearsing my poem in front of a mirror, if you can believe that. Even so, I still thought about maybe skipping the poem and just playing a piece on my sax. But there’d been too much skipping this year for me already. I’d skipped participating in every other Open Mike Friday, and Mr. Ward had skipped over me in class whenever it was time to read aloud. Which is why everybody thought I was three degrees below a moron. Not that I blame them. Even I used to think I was an idiot. Of course, now I know better. So does my English teacher.

Mr. Ward and I had discussed my problem back in September. He’d agreed to keep my secret, although he thought I should share it with the class. As for me, I didn’t think they’d understand, and I didn’t want anybody treating me as if I was diseased or mentally ill. It seemed easier to let them think I was stupid, so long as I knew I wasn’t. But after last Friday, I realized Mr. Ward was right. It’s only been a week and already I feel lighter. That’s not the way I felt when he called my name, though.

“Okay, Raynard,” he said. “You’re on.”

All my second thoughts rushed forward, causing a traffic jam in my mind. But Gloria caught my eye. “Go on,” she whispered. “Do it, Cuz,” said Sterling. “Yeah,” said Wesley. “Show us what you got.”

I nodded thanks and took a deep breath. I shoved the poem in my pocket, grabbed my sax, and went to the front of the room.

OPEN MIKE

BY RAYNARD PATTERSON

 

 

Onion skin, acid-free linen,
80% recycled fiber—
the paper content
doesn’t much matter.
My eyes see
letters dancing backward
across whatever page
they’re printed on.
The why is a mystery to me.
Could it be I’m one gigabyte short?
Or maybe I was born feet first?
When the doctor smacked my bottom
did I laugh instead of cry?
Do my thoughts trade places
like letters, on the sly?
Such questions are enough
to make you crazy if
you’re not.
“Dyslexia is a minor disturbance,
nothing major once you learn
your way around it,” says the doc
as if he’s a radio jock
announcing a fender-bender.
Steer clear of the wreck ahead.
Try the Triborough
for smoother traffic the next time
you take your mind
for a spin.
Neurological distinction
notwithstanding,
something in me whispers
Freak
every time I wriggle out
of reading aloud,
or have to ask a stranger
“Excuse me, but
what does that sign say?”
Read me any way you choose.
Only please, stop asking
“What’s his problem?”

The world ain’t but one big surprise after another. Just look at Raynard. Or look at Steve. That white boy got more up his sleeve than anyone would guess. I ain’t lying.

Yesterday me, Wesley, and Sterling got up to do a cipher for Open Mike Friday and here come Steve, jumping up to join us. I laughed out loud. Didn’t even try to hide it. I ain’t never seen no white boy do no free-style poem. You know how hard that is? One person starts a poem, then the next guy has to step into the rhythm, pick up the poem where the first guy left off, and keep it going. Then, after a while, the third guy steps in, if there is a third guy, and he takes over, and then the fourth guy, and so on. You go round and round and round like that, long as you can keep it tight, or until somebody finishes off the poem, or you get tired. Whatever.